


Not exactly happily ever after

by jesseofthenorth



Series: Will you still need me (like that beatles song)? When I'm 64 [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:07:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesseofthenorth/pseuds/jesseofthenorth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not exactly their happily ever after. Except for how it totally is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not exactly happily ever after

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'marriage' square on my trope bingo card.

In the morning it takes Clint ten minutes to get to his feet, most days anyway.Today he can tell before he even opens his eyes that the weather has changed. His knees, and back and wrists and the shoulder he broke in Uzbekistan are all testifying loudly. He moves slowly and tries not to turn the fire in his joints up even higher. He only has to make it to the cabinet in the bathroom where he keeps the stuff the doc gave him for bad days. He rolls off the bed onto his knees on the carpet and holds his breath while the pain settles in deeper.

Clint is crouched on the floor, one knee bent, an arm on the bed trying to push himself carefully to his feet when he hears a shoe scuff behind him. Uh-oh.

“Dumb ass.” a voice says behind him. Busted. Luckily for him the voice holds no heat, only a sort of exasperated fondness.

Phil doesn't say another word, just steps close and holds his arm out for Clint to grip. Clint might be older and beat all to hell and really feeling it today but he still knows how to tell someone to shove their pity up their ass. If it was anyone else but Phil he _would_. Even Natasha would get told where to go. So sue him, his husband is different. Just by loving Clint he gets a pass on everything.

Clint reaches up for the hand Phil is offering, uses the added leverage to carefully pull himself to his feet. He doesn't bother trying to pretend every step isn't like pushing ground glass through his knees. Phil knows what mornings can be like for Clint. Besides Phil has his own mornings, once in a while.

Clint opens the cabinet over the sink and reaches for the prescription bottle there. The bones in his hands feel brittle and just the act of gripping the pill bottle is almost more than he can manage, he can't even close his fingers tight enough to grip the lid, never mind conjure the grip-strength to get the lid off. Clint drops his hand, still holding the bottle, to rest on the sink and lets his head fall forward, eyes closed, to breath through the frustration at not being able to do this simplest of tasks. He is still calmly breathing in and out when he feels a familiar hand close over his and take the bottle from him.

Clint opens his eyes then and lookes down at his traitor hands, joints swollen and distorted by time and misuse. Some days it's harder than others not to let pain and anger and frustration have it's head. Some days the ache that burns through him makes it hard not to yell or cuss or sit in a corner and feel sorry for himself. Clint pulls in a deep breath and gets a grip. He's too fucking old to be a quitter now.

“Here.” Phil says holding out a glass of water in one hand and a pair of pills in the other. Clint doesn't need to look at Phil's eyes to know he will see concern but no pity, humor but no mockery. Just Phil's level acceptance of Clint and his limits and their life together. Clint doesn’t need to look to know it's there but he does it anyway because today he needs to see it all. Phil just quirks a smile at him and nods at the hand holding the pills.

 

****

Forty minutes later Clint is dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, sitting at their kitchen table lovingly holding a cup of coffee. The mug is this big clunky thing, kind of misshapen with gaps in the bright purple glaze, it holds a lot of coffee. Connor made it for him when the kid was in grade one. It will always be Clint's favorite. Besides, the odd bulges and the one place where it slumped make it easier to hold these days, his hands being what they are.

Phil comes over, puts down a plate of toasted bagels and a pot of tea, then sits across from Clint.

“Better?” he asks and Clint gets that he wants to know if the drugs are working.

“Yep. Doc Harper's little magic pills save the day.” Clint answers.

Phil takes another look “Are you high?” he asks not bothering to cover up his amusement.

“Little bit.” Hawkeye tells him, grinning and taking a huge bit of bagel.

Phil thinks about finding Clint struggling to gain his feet earlier and decides he can deal with a slightly stoned almost-geriatric archer over one grimacing in pain and failing to stand.

He shoos Clint out into the backyard for some fresh air rather recruit him for kitchen clean up. Clint blissed out in the sunshine is a lot more enjoyable than Clint dropping the crockery because his painkillers were working a little too well. Besides, it's two mugs, a plate, and a teapot. Hopefully Clint won't get into to much trouble in the 10 minutes it'll take to dispatch the dishes.

Clint, in fact, finds _no_ trouble. What he does find is a patch of sun with a really comfy Adirondack chair in it, were he promptly falls asleep. Phil finds him there and spends a good couple of minutes admiring the silver in Clint's hair (barely noticeable amongst the blonde) and the way his shoulders still fill out a t-shirt, even his somewhat saggy old-man ass was still passably hot. Nature had been kind to the man at least on the surface. Still he _is_ having a nap at ten thirty in the morning. Just because Phil spends an indeterminate amount of time admiring his sleeping form does not mean he's not going to mock the shit out of Clint for it later.

Phil sits down in the other chair with his tablet, reading the news and awaiting his opportunity.

****

It turns out to be a good day after all. Clint wakes up before lunch much less stoned, and much more flexible and relaxed.

It seems like a good day for a drive. They make the trip out to the mansion in near record time _they_ might be getting old but Lola hasn't lost a step. She can still shove Phil back in his seat when he puts his foot into the pedal.

The older Avengers, the original team, are mostly retired. Except for Cap, predictably. And Tony who, less predictably (although it was _Tony_ so not REALLY), had done … something, to slow his aging process. Phil tries not to think about it much. Knowing Stark it was something invasive and dangerous and most probably ill advised. But, when Phil sess Tony and Steve together he has some inkling of why. Once in a while he will catch Steve, in an unguarded moment, looking at Tony with gratitude and relief and a lot of other things. It has to be a comfort for Steve to know he maybe isn't going to outlive everyone he knew, again. For better or for worse he will at least have Tony Stark.

Phil absolutely understands that. He has his own moments of unalloyed gratitude fairly often when he looks across form where ever he might be sitting and sees Clint's face, laugh lines and bushy eyebrows included, smiling back at him.

 

Clint does his usual Wednesday thing at the mansion: free form discussion with the up and coming avengers about creating a plan on the fly and the value of making a weapon out of whatever is on hand. Phil has a very hearty discussion with the ever lovely Pepper about the value of well placed guilt versus the prodigious application of a Taser when dealing with recalcitrant billionaires.

****

By the time they get home Clint is visibly lagging. Constant pain is tiring, and despite the fact that he never mentions it, Phil can tell from the lines around his mouth that Clint is hurting again. Phil brings him some relief and a glass of water to wash it down with while Clint is sitting on the edge of their bed carefully toeing his shoes off. Clint smiles his thanks, somewhat distractedly and takes what is being offered. Phil goes to brush his teeth.

 

When he comes back Clint is still sitting on the edge of their bed staring at his now bare feet.

“Everything alright?” Phil asks.

“Hmm? Oh. Yeah.” Clint takes a minute before he looks up at Phil. “Do you ever regret... this?”

“This?”

“Marrying me when I'm old and kinda worn out.”

It has been quite a while since Clint managed to render him speechless. Phil just sits there staring like an idiot for a minute trying to make sense of what he's hearing.

“Are you seriously asking me if I regret the fact that you lived long enough for us to get here? Really? Is that what you are asking me?”

Clint just blinks at him, eyes a little rounder than usual. Phil couldn't really help the fact that there was a little _heat_ in his voice.

“Are you wondering if I regret every morning I get to wake up beside the man I love? I hope that's not what you are asking me.”

“Phil.” Clint says clearly trying to mollify him “That's not what I meant.”

“Well what did you mean then?”

“Well. I'm … wrecked. My knees are fucked. My hands don't work anymore. I'm in pain every day. I'm even getting a little deaf. Again. I just-. I wish you didn't end up getting saddled with-”

“Clint. The only thing I would ever regret.” Phil tells him sitting down beside him “Is if you were not here. So what if you aren't as spry as you were when we met? The only thing that isn't ideal about the way things are now is that you don't get more time to just enjoy your life. I'm _grateful_ for every day we get.”

He watches Clint blink a few times and lets him hang on to the illusion that Phil doesn't know he's blinking away tears.

“Now get rid of those jeans and come to bed, _old man_. I believe I'd like the opportunity to prove just how grateful I am.”

****

They both sleep soundly, nothing disturbing their rest.

The next day is a good day, and Phil doesn't regret a second of it.


End file.
